


Runaway Car

by hermette



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermette/pseuds/hermette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the <a href="http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/306125.html?thread=2899917#t2899917">Pretend Dating Fest</a> on Livejournal.</p><blockquote>Spencer's career is going well, but in his last evaluation his boss complains about Spencer's lack of social ambitions. Spencer thinks this is bullshit. He's an accountant, a damn good one, why does he need a social life?<p>But now he's suddenly in need of a boyfriend for a function his firm is organising and Spencer has to come up with someone now. He knows Ryan's busy, so he says the first name that pops up in his brain--Brendon, a one night stand Spencer picked up at one of Ryan's parties.</p><p>And now he's in a mess: none of his friends are willing to lie and pretend they're Brendon and his boss wants to meet Brendon beforehand and everyone in his office is asking Spencer about him, happy that he "finally found the right person".</p></blockquote><p>This is... mostly that? Title comes from Mat Kearney’s <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNxfDoI1ncQ">song of the same name</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Runaway Car

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Pretend Dating Fest](http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/306125.html?thread=2899917#t2899917) on Livejournal.
>
>> Spencer's career is going well, but in his last evaluation his boss complains about Spencer's lack of social ambitions. Spencer thinks this is bullshit. He's an accountant, a damn good one, why does he need a social life?
>> 
>> But now he's suddenly in need of a boyfriend for a function his firm is organising and Spencer has to come up with someone now. He knows Ryan's busy, so he says the first name that pops up in his brain--Brendon, a one night stand Spencer picked up at one of Ryan's parties.
>> 
>> And now he's in a mess: none of his friends are willing to lie and pretend they're Brendon and his boss wants to meet Brendon beforehand and everyone in his office is asking Spencer about him, happy that he "finally found the right person".
> 
> This is... mostly that? Title comes from Mat Kearney’s [song of the same name](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNxfDoI1ncQ).

Spencer isn’t at all surprised when he arrives at the office and finds it almost completely empty - lights off, doors pulled closed. The detritus of the past few days is scattered everywhere -- half-empty coffee cups with lipstick around the rim, chewed up pen caps, redwells stacked up against walls and overflowing with paper. There’s an enormous trash bag by the front desk, tipped over onto its side and spilling a confetti of shredded paper onto the polished wood floor, and a pretty young girl is sitting at the desk, fingers curled protectively around her paper cup of coffee. She smiles at Spencer when he walks in, a tight little early morning smile that makes Spencer feel like an asshole for not remembering her name. They’ve had so many temps in these past few weeks.

“There’s coffee,” she says, nodding sleepily in the direction of the break room. “Morning.”

“Thanks,” he says. He plucks a peppermint out of the jar on her desk. “Anyone else in?”

“Just you.” She props her elbow on her desk and cups her chin in her palm, dark hair swinging forward. She sticks her other hand out and Spencer drops the peppermint wrapper into it. “I didn’t really expect anyone until lunch.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep, I decided to come on in.”

“You were here until after midnight,” she tells him, like Spencer isn’t perfectly aware of that. It’s just hard to shake off the frantic pace of the past week, the hurry up and wait, two copies, state and federal, sign here and here and here. He thinks that the clock Pete had set up in the break room, counting down the hours and minutes until midnight in bright, red letters must have gotten burned onto the backs of his eyes. “You should go home, take the morning.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “I’ve just got some stuff. Those extensions aren’t going to file themselves, right? But if you want to go, I can watch the phones.”

“Nah,” she says, smiling again. “I’m already up, so...”

Spencer nods. “You should at least go home early.”

“Something like that,” she says, turning back to the shredder. “There are danishes leftover from yesterday.”

Spencer snags a cup of coffee and a muffin from the break room and carries them to his cubicle, which isn’t in much better shape than the rest of the office. There are half a dozen coffee cups scattered across his desk, but none of them are growing anything yet, so Spencer counts it as a win. He gathers them up gingerly, being careful not to splash the sludge onto his hands, and dumps them out in the sink in the bathroom.

He tosses the cups in the trash, flips his desk lamp on and gets to work.

:::

Pete raps twice on the partition of Spencer’s cubicle the next morning, his universal “come follow me” gesture, and since he’s the boss, Spencer finishes up the email he’s writing, clicks send, and then walks across the hall and into Pete’s office.

“What’s up?” he says, folding himself up into the chair in front of Pete’s desk. He has to stop himself from reaching out and playing with one of the little toys lined up in front of Pete’s computer.

“Spencer, my man.” Pete leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. He’s got a week’s worth of stubble scattered across his cheeks and chin and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He looks like he rolled out of bed and into his car and happened by the office on accident. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Um,” Spencer says. “I...I work here?”

“Right,” Pete says, “but it’s seven in the morning on April 17th. You’ve been working sixteen hour days for the past two weeks. Take a day, dude, take two.”

“I know,” Spencer says, leaning forward in his seat, “but, I’ve got to finish filing the extension for--”

“Hang on, Spencer,” Pete says, holding up a hand. “Just... breathe for a second, dude.”

Spencer sits back in his chair and fights not to cross his arms over his chest. He raises an eyebrow at Pete, who rolls his eyes and says, “You did a great job for us this year, and we appreciate that. I don’t want you to think I don’t know how hard you’ve been working.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says, uncertain. Pete doesn’t look pissed, but there’s a seriousness to his expression that's making Spencer uncomfortable. He shifts in his chair, crossing his legs. Pete grabs two pens off his desk and drums a little beat out on his calendar.

“Spence,” he says after a minute, “I like you, okay? You’re seem like a nice guy, and I’d like to keep you around.” He pauses and Spencer’s stomach twists in on itself. “But I’ve seen this before -- ambitious guy, fresh out of school, everything to prove--”

“I’m not,” Spencer tries, but Pete holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“I just don’t want to see you burn out, kid, is all I’m saying. You’ve gotta have something more than just this job, or you’re going to end up miserable, and if you’re miserable, you’re going to make the rest of us miserable.”

“I’m--” Spencer snaps his mouth shut. Pete smiles.

“You just need to find a balance.”

“I _have_ a balance,” Spencer says.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Spencer snaps. “You don’t know... it’s tax season, Pete, everyone worked a lot of hours.”

“Sure,” Pete says easily, “I get that, I do. But I want the people who work for me to be happy people, Spence. Sometimes we see each other more than we see our families, you know? I like you, man, and I want to keep you on, but you--”

“I have a boyfriend,” Spencer blurts out. He winces, mortified, and thinks about hurling himself out of Pete’s window. Unfortunately, it’s only a two-story building, so Spencer would probably just wind up mortified and with two broken legs.

“Huh,” Pete says. “Is that right?”

“I--” Spencer flaps his hand uselessly, trying desperately to think of how to roll this back with the least amount of collateral damage.

“You... is that why you’ve never said anything? Because you’re gay? Spencer, you didn’t think that I’d care if--”

“No!” Spencer says quickly. Jesus Christ, he’s managed to create an imaginary boyfriend and call his boss a homophobe in the span of 45 seconds. He closes his eyes and prays for his alarm to wake him, or for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Whoa, hey, you don’t have to... I am totally on board with that, you know? We’re here, we’re queer...” He trails off and gives an enthusiastic fistpump and Spencer wants to die.

“Maybe I should take the day,” he says, pushing himself up to his feet.

“Yeah,” Pete says, hopping up as well. “Yeah, good idea. Take the day off, take tomorrow too, okay? Catch up on your sleep.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You’ll bring him on Saturday night, right?”

Spencer freezes, halfway out of his chair. “Um.”

“You have to,” Pete says, and he’s smiling again. “I’ll take it as a personal affront if you don’t.”

“He, um. He... doesn’t live in the city,” Spencer says, inventing wildly. “So, I don’t... I mean, we don’t...”

“Oh,” Pete says. “yeah, that makes sense, no wonder I haven’t met him yet.”

“Right,” Spencer says. He latches onto the idea. “Yeah, exactly, I’ve been busy with work, and it hasn’t made sense for him to take time off when I was here so much, so--”

“Then you should take the whole week,” Pete says. He smacks his hand on the back of his chair. “Get him to come up, spend some time with him, bring him to the party. I know everyone would like to meet him.”

“I...”

“So what’s his name?”

Spencer stares at Pete for an interminable minute. “Brendon,” he says finally. “His name is Brendon.”

:::

Ryan laughs so hard he falls off of Spencer’s couch. “Dude,” he says. “Dude, if you wanted to go out with Brendon you could have just asked for his number.”

“I don’t,” Spencer, dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t want to go out with Brendon, I don’t even know Brendon.”

“You knew him well enough to--”

“Okay, can you just not?” Spencer says, jerking his head up and glaring at Ryan. Fucking Ryan, who hasn’t let up about Brendon since Spencer’s ill-advised one night stand with him two months ago. Fucking Ryan, who had gotten Spencer trashed and then pointed him in Brendon’s direction in the first place. Clearly, Spencer needs a new best friend. “I don’t know, I just said the first name that came to mind.”

“And that name was Brendon.”

“Do you want to be an asshole, or do you want to help me figure out a way out of this?”

Ryan smiles. “I want to be an asshole.”

“Fuck you, then,” Spencer says, reaching for his phone. “I’m calling Jon.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Ryan says. He grabs Spencer’s phone off the coffee table and clutches it to his chest. “I’m good at plans, I can come up with a plan.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, because Ryan’s plans have been known to end with Spencer naked in the bathroom at a gas station with a half-empty can of silly string. “Look, we just call Brendon--”

“I’m not calling Brendon.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. He shrugs. “I’ll do it then.”

“No, you’re not. No one is calling him.”

“Not that, you dicksmack. I’ll be pretend Brendon. I’ll go to the party with you, whatever. I can totally be your pretend boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Spencer says, sitting up straight, because that’s not a bad idea. It would just be for a night, and Spencer could get Pete off his back and... Spencer thinks of dancing with Ryan, of holding his hand and maybe even having to kiss him, which... no. “Yeah, no.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He wrinkles up his nose. “I didn’t think that one through.”

“Clearly.”

“Someone else, though?”

“Who? Jon isn’t going to fly in from Chicago to be my pretend boyfriend.”

Ryan chews on the inside of his lip for a second, then says, “Dallon?”

“Worth a shot,” Spencer says, because there’s not much Dallon won’t agree to, given the proper motivation. He takes his phone back from Ryan and calls Dallon, who wheezes into the phone until Breezy comes onto the line and says, “Spencer Smith, you dog, you. I have ideas, though. Do you own any handcuffs? Ours are lined with pink fur, but if you don’t mind the pink--”

Spencer jabs the _end call_ button with a shaky finger. “That’s a no on Dallon.”

They spend the better part of half an hour going through the contacts on Spencer’s phone, trying to find someone suitable to be Spencer’s pretend boyfriend for an evening. Spencer starts a list on the back of an old Chinese carryout menu, but Ryan dismisses every name Spencer suggests before he can even write it down.

“Do you like, like, any of our friends?”

“I like all of them,” Ryan says. “But you’re you.”

Spencer flops over on the couch, laying an arm across his forehead. He feels a little like someone took a melon baller to his eyeballs. “I’m so fuuucked,” he says, kicking at Ryan’s thigh for emphasis.

Ryan hums, then says, “Hey, Brendon?”

Spencer lifts his head and says, “I told you I’m not--” and then, “the fuck, dude, _no_ ,” because Ryan is holding his hand up in a “one minute” gesture and talking into his phone, saying, “...easier, because he’s sitting right here.”

“You _fucker_ ,” Spencer says, scrambling backward off the couch.

“Hang on one second,” Ryan says. He holds the phone out. “It’s Brendon,” he says unnecessarily.

“I will kill you with my brain,” Spencer mutters, but he takes the phone. His fucking palms are sweating. He’s going to _kill_ Ryan. “Um,” he says. “Hi. It’s Spencer. Spencer Smith, from Ryan’s party? The...we...”

Ryan collapses in on himself, snickering into the couch cushion.

There is literally no one Spencer doesn’t hate.

:::

“So,” Spencer says, shutting his bedroom door to try and muffle Ryan’s laughter. “If you needed like... travel expenses, or whatever...” he trails off and hopes that didn’t sound he was callingl Brendon a hooker.

“If you had like, some Capri Suns,” Brendon says. “That would be cool.”

“Capri Suns?”

“They’re my favorite,” Brendon says. “So if I’m going to be at your apartment all weekend, you know? That would be a cool thing to have.”

“Okay,” Spencer says slowly. He puts a note on the crumpled up Chinese menu. “Any particular flavor?”

Brendon laughs, loud and bright. “Surprise me, Spencer Smith.”

:::

Pete calls on Wednesday afternoon, over-excited and talking too fast, going on about God even knows what, and Spencer half-listens, phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder. He’s got a bag of oranges in one hand and a bag of apples in the other. After a minute he tosses them both in the cart and pushes it toward the cereal aisle. “Sure,” he says mindlessly, then “wait, what?”

“Thursday night. You’ll bring Brendon?”

“Bring Brendon...where?” Spencer says, staring at the Fruit Loops. “What are you...”

Pete laughs. “Where are you?”

“At the grocery store.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Pete says. “You’re nesting.”

“I’m… what the hell, Pete, I’m not nesting.”

“You are, it’s adorable. I’ll let you get back to it. I’ll see you Thursday night, all right? I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait,” Spencer says, but Pete is already gone. Spencer sighs and dials Brendon’s number. He needs to know what kind of breakfast cereal he eats anyway.

:::

When he sits down to make a list, Spencer calculates that there are no fewer than 87 potential problems with this whole fake boyfriend plan, not the least of which is that, from what he remembers, Brendon is so far out of his league it isn’t even funny. He hopes that he’s remembering wrong, that maybe the tequila had altered his vision somehow.

“Oh God,” Spencer moans when Ryan pulls a picture of Brendon up on his phone. Spencer was wrong; Brendon is even more gorgeous than he remembered. “I hate everything. There is nothing I do not hate.”

“So you said,” Ryan says, patting Spencer’s knee.

Spencer talks himself out of and then back into the entire charade half a dozen times, but by the time he finally works up the nerve to call it off, Brendon is knocking on the door to Spencer’s apartment with a beat up yellow duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hi,” he says when Spencer opens the door.

“Hi,” Spencer echoes. He’s got a dishcloth tucked into the waistband of his jeans and there are probably soap bubbles on his face, because his life is exactly that awesome. He holds out a hand just as Brendon moves in for a hug. There’s an awkward shuffle, an oh, sorry, you were, sorry, my bad, when Brendon pulls back just as Spencer leans towards him.

Brendon laughs and grabs Spencer by the shoulders. “Hug time,” he announces, pulling Spencer into an embrace, not one of those manly, diagonal hugs, but a real hug, with his arms around Spencer’s neck and his nose pressed up against Spencer’s collarbone. Spencer flaps a little, unsure of where to put his hands, and Brendon pinches his neck. “Come on, Spencer Smith, hug your boyfriend.”

“You’re early,” is all Spencer can think to say to that. He finally settles for putting his hands on Brendon’s hips. That feels safe.

“I just couldn’t wait to see you,” Brendon says, squeezing a little. He’s still not pulling away, what the fuck. Spencer can’t decide if he wants to push Brendon back or just curve his arms around Brendon’s waist. “Oh, shit, dude, I was going to do a whole ‘honey I’m home’ thing but I forgot.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and straightens up. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” Brendon says. “Or, oh, hey, or I could go back out and then come in again?”

“Or you could close the door and put that heavy ass bag down.”

“Or I could do that,” Brendon says. He nudges the door closed with his hip and drops his bag on the ground by the door, looking around and scratching absently at the back of his neck. He must have been driving with his windows down, because his hair is everywhere, sticking up at odd angles, making Spencer want to run his hands through it.”It smells seriously good in here. Like apples.”

Spencer maybe stares for a minute; Ryan’s picture didn’t even do Brendon justice. Brendon tosses Spencer a goofy smile and shoves a hand through his hair; he’s almost offensively attractive.

Spencer clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Um. Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “No problem. Any friend of Ryan’s, you know?”

“Right,” Spencer says. He hates how awkward he feels, but he’s never done anything like this before, not even close. He has no idea what to say. “Can I… get you something to drink?”

Brendon’s eyes light up and Spencer points him to the top shelf of the fridge, where four flavors of Capri Sun are lined up neatly. Brendon makes a happy noise and collects one of each, then flops out on Spencer’s couch and grabs the remote.

Spencer waits until he’s settled on a marathon of Real Housewives of who the fuck knows where before he goes back into the kitchen and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He can do this. He can.

:::

Brendon leaves the door open while he showers and treats Spencer to four choruses of _When Doves Cry_. He’s actually got a decent voice, and by the third chorus, Spencer is tapping out the rhythm on his dresser as he looks for socks.

“So what’s our cover story?” Brendon asks, emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is scrubbed pink, hair flopping down over one eye. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I thought we could just…go simple? Just, you know, we met at our friend Ryan’s New Year’s party, hit it off...” He trails off and shrugs helplessly.

Brendon nods. “Works for me. The truth is always easier to remember than a lie, right?”

“Right,” Spencer says. “I’ll um. Let you.” He points at Brendon’s bag. “Let you get dressed.” He pulls the door shut with perhaps a little too much force and then takes to pacing up and down the living room, glancing at his watch, trying with absolutely no success to stop thinking about Brendon getting dressed in the other room.

Brendon is messy. Ryan warned Spencer, but he forgot, and now Brendon has left straw wrappers scattered all over Spencer’s couch. He knows that when he goes back into his room, Brendon will have left his towel, damp and smelling like shampoo, in a heap on Spencer’s bathroom floor, that there will be clothes scattered all over Spencer’s bed.

Spencer draws a slow breath in and then pushes it back out again. This was such a fucking mistake.

Because… because the thing about Brendon is that he was never meant to be a one night stand. Spencer doesn’t really do one night stands, and he certainly doesn’t do them with guys who look like Brendon and laugh like Brendon and tell horrible, cheesy jokes like Brendon. It had taken Ryan getting him smashed off his face to even work up the courage to go and talk to Brendon, which had somehow – and even now, four months later, Spencer isn’t sure how – led to Spencer fucking him in Ryan’s guest room and then waking up naked and sticky and hungover, and sneaking out before the sun was even up.

And after that was his new job, his first day, no time at all to be trying to start up a new relationship and Spencer and had put off calling Brendon for a laundry list of reasons -- he was too busy, work was too hectic, he just didn’t have the time -- until enough time had passed that it would be too awkward to call and Ryan had given up, save an occasional feeble jab. Spencer didn’t know how to tell his best friend he just wasn’t brave enough.

Eventually, Spencer decided that that odd feeling in his chest was relief; he was in no place in his life for a relationship.

Of course, there’s no one to lie to inside his own head, but at least Spencer is ready with an excuse, should anyone ask.

:::

Brendon holds onto Spencer’s hand for the entire car ride. Spencer assumes Brendon’s just getting into character or whatever, or trying to get Spencer into character, but it’s nice all the same. It’s been a long time since he was was touched for no reason at all. Brendon is tactile, Spencer remembers that bit, but he’d forgotten -- or maybe he never knew -- how solid and grounding this is, the feeling of Brendon’s hand in his.

Still, it does little to prepare Spencer for the full frontal assault Brendon launches once they’re inside the club. Spencer stumbles into a wall, taking Brendon with him.

“Jesus, Bren.”

“Sorry,” Brendon mumbles, brushing his lips along Spencer’s jaw. “But that guy over there is waving at you.”

Spencer swears and pushes off the wall, forcing a smile to his face and returning Pete’s wave. “That’s my boss.”

“Right,” Brendon says, tucking his hand into Spencer’s back pocket. “Better make it good then.”

“Spencer!” Pete says, yelling over the music. “This must be Brendon!” He grins too broadly, showing off all of his teeth.

“Brendon Urie,” Brendon says, sticking out a hand. Pete clasps hands with him and they do one of those weird chest bump-y things. Spencer rolls his eyes. He needs a fucking drink.

“It’s awesome you guys could come,” Pete says. He’s got an arm around Brendon’s shoulders now. “So awesome.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not every night I get invited to hang out at a club opening with a bunch of CPAs. Thrill of a lifetime right here, man.”

Pete throws his head back and laughs, gives Brendon a little shove towards Spencer. “Go, go get drinks. I’ve got a tab open.”

Brendon puts his hand back into Spencer’s pocket and plasters himself to Spencer’s back. “So that’s Pete?”

Spencer nods. “That’s Pete.”

“He’s very....”

“He’s very Pete,” Spencer supplies, trying to edge up to the bar. The club is fucking packed already. There’s sweat springing up Spencer’s neck, trickling down his spine, and it doesn’t help that Brendon is like a furnace at his back, breathing hotly into Spencer’s ear. “What are you drinking?”

“Beer,” Brendon says. “In a bottle, cold as fuck.”

Spencer gets close enough to shout his order and then unsticks Brendon from his back long enough to get back to Pete’s table, but as soon as he puts them down, Brendon is back on him, hand curved around Spencer’s thigh and rubbing roughly against the seam of his jeans. It’s about a thousand degrees in the room.

“You guys are cute,” Pete says.

“Right?” Brendon says. He flutters his eyelashes at Spencer.

“How long have you been together?”

Spencer opens his mouth, but Brendon is already telling the story, complete with over the top embellishments about how Spencer had pined and wooed and been so desperate that Brendon had no choice but to take pity on him. Pete is eating it up, nodding along, like he can believe that Spencer would be exactly that desperate. Spencer takes a drink of his beer and thinks about getting offended, but Brendon is so beautiful like this that he can’t.

How could he possibly have forgotten this, how easy Brendon is with people, how charming and effortless? He’s waving one hand in the air, laughing at something Pete is saying. Spencer wants to reach out and grab his hand. When iit occurs to him that he’s allowed to, he does. Brendon pauses, right in the middle of a sentence and a smile spreads across his face. He looks so dear, so familiar and necessary that Spencer is leaning over and kissing him before he even realizes he’s made the decision to do so.

When he pulls back, he thinks Brendon might be blushing. It’s probably just the flashing lights.

“Spencer Smith,” Brendon says. “I think you should dance with me.”

Pete laughs. “Spencer dances?”

“He does with me.”

Brendon pulls him out of his chair and out onto the dance floor, winding his way into the churn of bodies. “Brendon,” Spencer says, but Brendon just keeps tugging until he’s pressed into the crowd, until Spencer is pressed up against him, shoulders, hips, thighs, all snug together. Spencer stands there dumbly; he can’t decide what to do with his hands.

“Just move,” Brendon yells, touching Spencer’s hips. Spencer doesn’t have any idea what the music is, but the steady kick drum beat thuds in his chest and Spencer just drops his forehead against Brendon’s and lets Brendon move him. There isn’t any room to move, not really, so Spencer doesn’t have to do much. He opens his legs a little when Brendon’s thigh slides up against his and curls his hands around Brendon’s hips. Brendon rubs his nose against Spencer’s cheek, pushes in even closer when Spencer nudges his fingertips under the edge of Brendon’s shirt.

Spencer slides his hand higher. Brendon’s back is slick with sweat, and Spencer wants to get his hand spread out between the sharp edges of Brendon’s shoulder blades. He thinks, you make me reckless.

“Are you thirsty?” he yells, right into Brendon’s ear.

“What?”

“Thirsty!”

Brendon shakes his head. “Dance,” he yells, so Spencer does.

:::

Spencer has to drag Brendon out of the club.

“I don’t want to go,” he says, clambering into Pete’s lap. “Pete, tell him.”

“He doesn’t want to go,” Pete says. He grins and ruffles Brendon’s hair. “I like this one, Spencer. Keep him.”

Brendon beams. “You didn’t like the other ones?”

“What other ones? You’re it, little dude. Spencer’s never brought any of his young men home to meet the family.”

Brendon snorts. “The family.” He twirls a pretend mustache. “You just sounded so. Dude. Dude, the family.”

“You guys should come out more often,” Pete says, passing Brendon over. Brendon whines and tries to cling to Pete. He comes away with his hat, which he perches on top of his head.

“We should,” he says. “We should come out more often, Spencer.”

“Okay,” Spencer says, tucking Brendon under his arm. Pete grins at him and makes a kissy face. Spencer’s stomach twists unhappily. He hates lying to Pete. Pete is great.

“You’re great,” he says. Brendon nods into Spencer’s shoulder.

Pete is still grinning, showing too many teeth. “You guys want me to call you a cab?”

“Nah.” Spencer rubs his hand up Brendon’s side and then back down again, tracking the way it moves when Brendon breathes. His shirt moves under Spencer’s grip, a flash of skin that’s there and then gone again. “I’m not drunk. Just...”

“You’re high on life,” Pete says. “I get it, I get it. You guys get out of here, I’ll see you Saturday.”

Brendon holds Spencer’s hand in the car again, head tipped back against the headrest. Spencer drives one-handed, keeping their interlaced fingers perched on his knee, watching the way the streetlights glide over the planes of Brendon’s face. It feels like something fundamental is uncurling inside him, spreading out along under his skin.

Brendon is asleep by the time Spencer parks the car.

“Brendon,” he says, squeezing his hand. “Hey, Bren?”

Brendon wakes up slowly; hands first, then his legs, shifting around in the seat. His eyes are so shadowed that Spencer can hardly tell when they blink open. “Hmm?”

“We’re here,” Spencer says. He’s squeezing Brendon’s hand again, fingers sweaty where they’re tangled together.

“Oh,” Brendon says. He sits up. “Did I fall asleep? Lamer.” He shuffles out of the car and up the steps to Spencer’s apartment, props himself against the wall while Spencer fumbles the door open. Somehow they’re holding hands again. “Oh, hey,” Brendon says, blinking sleepily. He pulls his hand away to rub his eyes. Spencer reaches for him involuntarily, then shoves his hands into his pockets.

“So, um.” Spencer says. “The couch pulls out into like, a bed-thing. You can sleep there.”

“Okay,” Brendon says. He toes his shoes off and pushes his toes into the carpet. “Thanks, Spence.”

“And there are sheets, or whatever.”

“‘kay.”

“That you can sleep on.”

“‘kay.”

Spencer rocks back onto his heels. “You’re tired, right?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He tugs his shirt off and tosses it toward his bag. Spencer wants to touch him for about a thousand years.

“Okay, so I’ll just...” Spencer trails off and nods toward him bedroom. “So my room is down there. With my bed. Where I sleep.”

“I remember.”

“And there, the couch, that would be the place for you to sleep.”

“Spencer,” Brendon says. He’s smiling. “Go to bed.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “I’ll. Yeah. Okay, good night.”

:::

“Whassat?”

“It’s okay,” Brendon whispers. “It’s just me. Your couch is mad uncomfortable, dude. I’m sleeping here.

“‘kay,” Spencer says, pushing his face back into the nearest soft thing.

“I’m sleeping down here,” Brendon says. His voice is coming from vicinity of Spencer’s toes. “So don’t get any ideas.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Spencer mumbles. “All the important bits are lined up anyway.”

Brendon laughs; the quiet darkness in the room makes the sound feel closer than it is.

Spencer falls asleep again.

:::

“I want something with syrup,” Brendon grumbles the next morning, wrapping his blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Pancakes or waffles.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “You can have those cinnamon rolls that come in a can, or you can have cereal.”

“French toast.”

“I might be able to do regular toast. With like. Cream cheese?”

Brendon cracks an eye. “That’s not food. That’s an offense against God.”

“Or pop tarts?”

Brendon lifts his head from his nest of pillows. “Pop tarts?”

“With frosting.”

“Sold,” Brendon says, but he doesn’t emerge from his fort until Spencer has poured the coffee.

“Do you know,” he says, cradling his mug to his chest and curling up into a ball on Spencer’s couch, “that you have like, a guest room?” His bare toes are sticking out from under the edges of his pajama pants (pink with purple stars, Spencer has to hide his grin in his orange juice) and they pop when he curls and uncurls them against the couch cushions. “You could put a bed in there, you know? For like. Guests. That might be a good thing to have.”

“I was going to make it an office,” Spencer says. He hands Brendon the plate of Pop Tarts.

“You toasted them and everything,” he says. “Oh, Spencer Smith, you do know how to treat a boy.” He breaks it in half once, then again, then stuff the piece into his mouth. He’s got sticky red goop on his thumb. “Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Why don’t you make it an office?”

“Oh,” Spencer says. He flops down beside Brendon and tucks his feet under Brendon’s thigh. “I just… haven’t gotten around to it yet?”

Brendon hums and eyes the bare walls. “When did you move in here?”

“Like…” Spencer counts off on his fingers; Brendon snorts coffee and rubs his knuckles over Spencer’s ankle. “Two years ago? Two years in August I think.”

“Two years? You’ve got boxes in your closet, man.”

“I’m a busy guy,” Spencer says. He shrugs. It isn’t like he’s got some dark and twisty secret reason for it. He just hates decorating. “So what do you want to do today, Brendon Urie?”

“Hmm,” Brendon says. “We should do something awesome.”

“Yeah,” Spencer replies. “Something awesome.”

They play Mario Kart in their pajamas for five hours.

“We’ve got to like, _do something_ ,” Brendon says, shoving the empty pizza box away from him. His fingers leave greasy smears behind. “Spencer, Spencer, let’s do something. Let’s go like…” He trails off and looks over at Spencer expectantly.

“What?” Spencer says. “I’m like, sixty percent pizza right now. I can’t entertain you.”

Somehow they end up at Target of all places, pushing around a cart loaded with throw pillows and pictures frames and a green, ceramic frog toothbrush holder that had made Brendon so gleeful Spencer hadn’t had any choice but to toss it in.

“That’s the ugliest fucking toothbrush holder I’ve ever seen,” Spencer says when Brendon starts cooing over a matching soap dispenser.

“Can you please not talk like that where our toothbrush holder can hear you, Spencer? God. You’re so rude.”

“Oh, God,” Spencer says, and grabs the soap dispenser too.

They get separated in bedding, because Brendon keeps wandering away and then bounding back to the cart, holding a pack of playing cards or a hand towel with limes on it, but that’s fine. Spencer isn’t sure he can pick out sheets with Brendon climbing all over his back anyway.

“Spencer,” Brendon says breathlessly, coming up beside him and grabbing his elbow. “You have to come with me right now as a matter of utmost urgency.”

He hauls him over to the toy section and grabs a bright yellow box off the shelf, which he brandishes proudly.

“Okay,” Spencer says. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots,” Brendon says. “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, Spence.” He shakes the box at Spencer. “The original fighting robots!”

“Is it like, a video game?”

“Oh my God,” Brendon says, clutching his chest. “How do you not know what this is? Your life has been sad and empty, Spencer Smith. Your life has been forlorn, but I am about to rectify that right the fuck now.”

They spend the rest of the day on Spencer’s couch, beating the shit out of one another’s robots and prank calling Ryan. When Brendon’s stomach starts rumbling they dig pasta and spaghetti sauce out of the cabinets and then wind up changing into their pajamas early because, “oh God, Spencer, so much pasta, so much garlic bread.”

Spencer puts the frogs out in his bathroom and then curls up on the couch, one of his thighs pressed right up against Brendon’s. Brendon hands him a bowl of ice cream.

“This is nice,” Brendon says quietly. “I mean, last night was great, but this is nice too.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. He frowns. “Is… did you not have a good time last night?”

“No!” Brendon says quickly. “I did. Last night was great.”

“But you don’t – you don’t want to go tomorrow night, is that it?”

“What are you even talking about?” Brendon says. He’s got his bottom lip between his teeth and Spencer wants to close the distance between them and kiss him. He _wants_. “Of course I want to go. That’s why I came up, isn’t it? I just… I like this, is all I’m saying. It’s nice. Quiet or whatever.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. Brendon is making soup out of his ice cream, swirling it around with his spoon. Spencer feels like he’s supposed to say something, but he can’t think of what.

Then Brendon leans over and rests his head on Spencer’s shoulder with a soft sigh, and maybe Spencer was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t need to say anything at all.

:::

Brendon’s side of the bed is empty when Spencer wakes up the next morning, and there’s a note beside the half-full coffee pot that says,

 _gone to Ryan’s, back later!_

There are crumbs all over the note, which Spencer sweeps into the trash can before pouring the rest of the still warm coffee into a mug. He carries it into the bathroom, feeling vaguely unsettled for no reason he can name, and leaves it on the counter while he showers, using up all the hot water.

Brendon isn’t back by the time Spencer has dried off and dug a pair of jeans out of the piles of shopping bags he and Brendon left littering the bedroom last night, and he hasn’t called either. And it’s _stupid_ to be bothered by that, Spencer knows. Ryan has been Brendon’s friend much longer than Spencer has, and of course Brendon would want to see him while he was in town. Spencer just… misses him, which is so pathetic Spencer could punch himself in the face.

“Come on, Smith,” he says, pulling Ryan’s number up on his cell phone. “Get it together.”

 _did u steal my pretend boyfriend?_

 _confirmed_ , Ryan texts back a moment later, and then _he said bring Twizzlers_

Spencer laughs and grabs his keys and, after a moment’s thought, Brendon’s robot game, and hops in his car.

Brendon and Ryan are sitting on the floor on Ryan’s tiny kitchen Spencer lets himself in, apparently because it’s the only place to to sit. Every other surface is covered with canvases and drop cloths.

“Spencer!” Brendon says, grinning. “Did you bring sustenance?”

“I brought sugar and artificial preservatives,” Spencer says. He tosses the pack of Twizzlers to Brendon.

“That totally counts,” Brendon says.

“Urie,” Ryan says. “Be fucking still.” He grabs Brendon’s arm and pulls it back over his lap.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Ryan is designing my tattoo,” Brendon says, pulling his arm free and twisting it around so that Spencer can see the half-finished line of piano keys dancing across his forearm.

“You’re getting a tattoo?”

“Oh my fuck, Brendon.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Brendon says, giving Ryan his arm again. “Spencer, come sit with me and tell me things.”

Spencer walks over and sits down beside Brendon, close enough that their shoulders brush together. “What kinds of things?”

“I’ll give you sixty seconds to tell me as many embarrassing things about Ryan as you can.”

“Hey,” Ryan says, looking up. “You don’t even have like, a watch.”

“I’m totally counting in my head,” Brendon says. “Go, Spence.”

By the time Spencer has made it to second grade, when Ryan had cried when their teacher had dressed up like a vampire, Brendon has tipped to one side, head pillowed on Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer stops talking, but keeps his head down, cheek resting against the gloss of Brendon’s hair and carefully doesn’t meet Ryan’s knowing gaze.

:::

“This,” Brendon says, bounding up to Pete and latching onto his arm, “is an excellent party, Pete. It’s an excellent party.”

“Thanks, little dude,” Pete says, draping his arm around Brendon. “I’m glad you guys made it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Brendon says, smacking a kiss on Pete’s cheek. Spencer chokes on his beer, but Pete just laughs and ruffles Brendon’s hair.

“Go on,” he says. “Make the rounds; everyone’s been waiting to meet your Brendon.”

“ _My_ Brendon,” Spencer says, but Pete is exactly right, because every person he introduces Brendon to smiles, like they’re charmed just by being in the same room as Brendon, and says, “Oh, you’re Spencer’s Brendon.”

“I’m starting to get a weird complex here,” Brendon finally says. “I believe it’s time we avail ourselves of the open bar, and then, Spencer Smith, of the dance floor.”

Spencer laughs and points Brendon toward the bar. “Not a chance in hell, Urie,” he says, and no amount of pouting is going to change his mind. He’s already in way over his head; he doesn’t need his whole office to see it.

“I’ll dance with you,” Pete says, when Brendon drags Spencer over to beg Pete _you’re his boss, Pete, what are you good for_.

“Excellent,” Brendon says. “Then you can be my Pete.”

Spencer is half-certain the pair of them are going to break into a fully choreographed routine to _Thriller_ and can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not when they don’t. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes, because they’re making such fools out of themselves that everyone else has turned to look at them, so no one is watching Spencer as he leans up against the wall and wants so badly that his stomach hurts.

He wants more than a one night stand, more than a make believe weekend. He wants Brendon’s toothbrush beside his in that ridiculous frog and he wants a cache of embarrassing Brendon stories and he wants to lie down with Brendon and wake up with Brendon; he wants to be able to touch Brendon and kiss him and have it not be make believe and this was a _horrible idea_.

The lights are low and Spencer slips out of the room unnoticed, escaping, because it’s all too much to take. He tips his head back against the rough brick wall and focuses on breathing – he ruined this, he ruined it—

“Spence?”

Spencer sighs. “Hey, Bren.”

Brendon walks over and leans up against the wall by Spencer. The beer he’s holding is sweating all over his fingers. “You okay? I saw you leave.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Just got hot.” He reaches over and takes the beer out of Brendon’s hand. It’s gone a little warm, which is sort of gross, but Spencer takes a deep pull anyway and then wipes his wet fingers on his pants. “Having fun?”

Brendon hums and lifts the beer again. “There are like... so many people in there.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “It’s a big company.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He hands the beer to Spencer, who drains it. He wants to smash the beer bottle against the wall, but he doesn’t.

“Do you want to go?”

“It’s your party. Do you want to go?”

Spencer shrugs. “We could like... I don’t know. Are you hungry?”

“Not really. I ate about fifty of those stuffed mushrooms.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall and wishes it would start raining. His skin itches.

“We can go if you want to go,” Brendon says, and Spencer turns to look at him. He’s sweating a little, hair curling up at his temples, dressed in a suit that Spencer knows he bought just for the party.

Spencer is a dick.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Let’s go.”

Brendon fiddles with Spencer’s iPod all the way home, but never puts any music on. He’s quiet, quieter than Spencer has ever seen him except when he was asleep, and he guesses they’re back to... whatever they were six days again. They’re just two guys who had a one night stand, and Spencer is the guy who never called.

Brendon shuts himself in the bathroom as soon as they get home. Spencer hears the quiet sounds of him undressing and then the water turning on, sounding like everything Spencer wants and nothing he can have.

“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters, grabbing his phone and firing off a text to Ryan.

 _if I get any more emo i’m going 2 kick my own ass_

The reply from Ryan comes less than a minute later.

 _man the fuck up_.

“Right,” Spencer says. He scrubs his hands over his face and then goes into the kitchen to splash cool water on his neck. His hands are shaking.

Brendon has left the lamp on Spencer’s bedside table on. It casts the room in a pale golden light, and Brendon is curled up on his side, hugging his pillow to his chest, making soft noises into it as he sleeps. Spencer undresses carefully, jacket, tie, button down. He slips his shoes and socks off, folds his pants over the back of the armchair in the corner and slides in beside him, crawling in between sheets that are already warm with sleep. He reaches over and turns out the lamp, casting the room into darkness.

Spencer’s heart is in his throat.

In his whole life, Spencer could probably count the number of leaps he’s made on one hand. He likes order, he likes things that have a place and a purpose, things that line up at right angles and leave sharp corners. He doesn’t know how to do messy or complicated, but there’s a hot thing unraveling in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe and he thinks that this, lying in the dark and listening to Brendon breathe, having the right to do this, if anything in life is worth the risk, it’s this.

The streetlamp is cutting through the blinds, casting dim stripes of light over the bed. It’s not much light, but it’s enough for Spencer to make out the planes and valleys of Brendon’s face. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and rests his palm on Brendon’s cheek. He thinks, I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss you.

“Spence?” Brendon’s voice is uncertain and thick with sleep. Spencer feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Um,” he says, trying to pull his hand away, but Brendon catches him by the wrist and pulls him back.

“You can,” he says. He’s whispering. “I...I wish you would.”

Spencer swallows and shifts a little closer to Brendon, wanting the comfort of being close to him, which is probably a little stupid since Brendon is the thing he’s afraid of, but Spencer can’t really stop himself. He thinks it’s probably past time for him to stop trying to make sense of this.

(Ryan told him once that the best part of love was that it’s always unfinished, which had been such a Ryan thing to say Spencer hadn’t even thought to ask what that even meant. He thinks now that he should have maybe paid more attention.)

“I should have called,” Spencer says. He’s still touching Brendon’s face, sliding his thumb along the ridge of Brendon’s cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. When he traces the outline of Brendon’s mouth, Brendon shivers.

“I kept waiting for you to,” Brendon says. “Ryan said-”

“I know,” Spencer says. He moves his hand over Brendon’s chin and down his neck, where his pulse is flutters. He feels bold and reckless, like he’s eighteen all over again. “I wanted to. I kept... God, Brendon.” He feels like there’s a fist around his windpipe. “You scare the shit out of me. You fucking terrify me.”

In the end, Brendon is the brave one. He lifts up on one elbow and closes the distance between them, pushing his mouth against Spencer’s. The sheet slips off his shoulder, and suddenly there’s so much more skin, miles and miles of it and Spencer wants to touch everything he can reach.

“Wanted this,” Brendon is mumbling, clutching Spencer’s shoulder.

“Want _you_ ,” Spencer says. He tugs until Brendon rolls over onto him, and then slides his hands up Brendon’s back so that he can press him even closer. “Always wanted you.”

They don’t waste any time shucking off their clothes, dropping them over the side of the bed, forgotten as soon as they hit the floor. There are so many things Spencer wants to do, months of stored up fantasies and half-remembered dreams, but Brendon’s mouth is addictive and so soft and wet that Spencer can’t let go of it long enough to give voice to any of them. He settles for pushing his hips up against Brendon’s again and again, groaning at the way their dicks brush together between their bodies.

Brendon is frantic above him, breathing in like he’s choking on it. He works up a good rhythm, sweat springing up all over his body as he fucks against the hollow of Spencer’s hips. Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist and thinks yes. Yes, this.

There are words building up in Spencer’s throat and he bites them back, still half-terrified that this isn’t real, that Brendon is too bright and beautiful to be his, but Brendon doesn’t seem to be suffering the same worry, because he’s murmuring into Spencer’s mouth, telling him how hot he is, how good he feels, how close he is, about all the things he wants to do to Spencer as soon as he has the chance.

“I forgot,” Spencer gasps. “How fucking loud you are.”

Brendon grins; Spencer can feel the curve of it against his mouth.

“You love it,” he says, and Spencer nods, yes, yes, he does.

“Can you come like this?” Brendon asks, twisting his hips.

Spencer nods again, digging his fingers into Brendon’s back. The first heat of his orgasm is unfurling in his belly, hazy, barely there, and God, how could he have gone so long without this? How could he have had this and then not?

“You,” he says, because it’s the closest thing to what he really means. He opens Brendon’s mouth with his own and says it again, tells him, “you, you, you.”

Brendon comes first, forehead pressed against Spencer’s temple, shaking as his dick jerks against Spencer’s stomach.

“Jesus,” he says, “Jesus, Jesus.”

He loses his rhythm after that, his hips going into a slow roll as he rides it out, but it’s enough for Spencer, sprawled under Brendon’s weight and pushed down into the mattress. Brendon is making these sounds, fuck, these soft sounds into Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer comes just like that, twisting a fist in Brendon’s hair.

Afterward, once they’ve wiped themselves down with whatever Brendon could find on the floor beside the bed, Spencer mutters, “c’mere,” and pulls Brendon into the crook of his arm. Brendon comes easily, slotting their legs together and draping an arm over Spencer’s chest. Spencer kisses him, long and slow and sweet.

“So I’ve got this thing,” he says, once Brendon has made his way down Spencer’s neck. “This work thing.”

Brendon scrapes his teeth along Spencer’s collarbone. “Mmmhmm?”

“This party thing. I was hoping you’d go with me.”

“Okay,” Brendon says. He bites down on Spencer’s neck and then licks the sting away. “When is it?”

“December,” Spencer says. He arches up off the bed, seeking more of Brendon’s mouth. “Christmas.”

“I could do Christmas,” Brendon mumbles. He pauses and rests his chin on Spencer’s chest, looking up at him. Spencer touches two fingertips to the bruised red of Brendon’s bottom lip. “Maybe you could come to this New Year’s thing with me? I met this guy there last year that I thought...” he trails off and shakes his head sadly, his chin digging into Spencer’s sternum. “Fuck and run.”

“Mmm,” Spencer says. “Well, clearly he was an idiot.”

“Clearly,” Brendon says. He’s smiling, but he still looks a little uncertain, and Spencer wants him to never look like that, never again. Not about Spencer. Not about this.

He cups Brendon’s cheek and says, “Can I keep you?”

“I’m not a pet,” Brendon says, but when Spencer pushes his fingers into Brendon’s hair and rubs, Brendon collapses on his chest with an exaggerated moan of pleasure. Spencer grins.

“Let’s sleep for a little while.”

Brendon grumbles, but slides off of Spencer and rolls over. “Little spoon,” he says, and Spencer shuffles up behind him. “A little while.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. He kisses Brendon’s shoulder, presses his forehead to the back of Brendon’s neck, and hangs on.


End file.
